


antidote

by morino



Series: [ collection ] – obstacles [1]
Category: springwave
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-05
Updated: 2017-03-05
Packaged: 2018-10-13 16:45:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10517781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morino/pseuds/morino
Summary: you were bored; he was fun.[ apartment au; min/mikyung ]





	

You do not know what exactly it is that draws you to him.

Perhaps it is the smell of smoke that clings to his graphic shirt, or the hint of perfume that lies just underneath it, citrusy and not at all him; the scent of someone else and the remnants of the fire he started in their chests just so he could watch them burn at his feet, still on their knees and begging for anything but mercy.

This smell, the telltale sign of an arsonist who delights far too much in his craft — you've stumbled upon it before, sniffed it out and turned your head to allow yourself a moment to privately choke on your disgust. 

You do not loathe men like him, cannot find the energy to do much more than scrunch your nose and wish them away. But for some reason, you feel differently when you meet him.

Your hands feels cold and your mouth is perpetually dry. His eyes sparkle with mischief and raw intent and on any other night you'd simply walk away and push his face out of your memory with little to no effort spent. But it is not any other night when he asks for your name, hand out to hold, and you take it in yours as something vile curls around your tongue:

"Mikyung."

Your name has never sounded more rotten to your own ears.

You wonder why it is that you do not bother to lie. You don't spend much time questioning anything beyond that as the seconds spent in his company bleed into minutes and the night continues creeping closer and closer to a new day. 

There is a man seated at one of the tables behind you, with bangs that add a softness to already soft eyes, and cheeks high with color. He is surrounded by company just as easy on the eyes as he is, but it is difficult not to notice him when his laugh seems to rise above the cluster of their voices every time it occurs.  
  
He – _Minjae_ , he says his name is, teeth sharp as he gives you a rather sly grin – has been taking the chance to leer at Soft Eyes every time he assumed you were too caught up in sipping your drink to notice.  
  
Distantly, you wonder why it is not that table he's approached, why he's come to you instead. Vividly, you register that you are but an appetizer tonight, something to hold him off until—

You don't chase after that thought for too long.

You let him whisk you away just after twelve, his mouth still watering for a someone that isn't you.

 

-

 

You were bored. 

It's the only way to justify your actions. You remember blunt nails digging at his skin, tongues dancing entirely out of step with one another, your mouth no longer as dry but just as lonely as his lips chased every other part of you.

You wanted a proper kiss, at least, and he couldn't even give you that. 

He doesn't give you his number, but you give him yours. It is barely light outside and your eyes are unhappy to be working when sleepiness still tries to pull them shut, but you dress up and leave the dingy motel room before you're tempted to crawl into bed again. There's something about the thought of being the one that's left behind that gets under your skin, makes you feel sick.

Your number sits scribbled on the back of a business card you received from a face you don't remember, no name attached, atop the bedside table closest to him when you go.

You do not expect him to call, and he doesn't.

It was not a bad decision to make; you were bored, he was fun.

You were bored.

You were bored.

You _are_ bored. 

You sit on your bed with thighs clamped together, an arm stuck between them and a hand fervently working at the dull ache between your legs. You do not say his name once, but his face falls in and out of focus with every breath you take.

You send a sidelong glance to the phone sitting under your lamp once you're done, like you're waiting for something. Another fix, maybe.

You still don't expect him to call, and he doesn't.

You curl up, thighs still mildly aching for the bites you wished he had left there, and fall asleep.


End file.
